


Memento More-y

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Addendum [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Development, Episode: s10e08 Memento Mori, Gen, Missing Scene, Missing Scenes, Team Bonding, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: Second in a series of stories containing Vignettes from episodes in the 9th and 10th season to help develop Vala's character more. This one adds six scenes to Memento Mori. Canon compliant so there are no pairings, but there is some sexual tension because it's Vala.





	1. My Treat

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any episodes you'd like to see added on to, PM me or comment and I'll add them to the list!

It’s the thunk that brings him back, the solid smack of her head, rolling off where she’s rested it against her hand, then slamming down onto the desk. She bolts upright immediately, pounding her palms into their shared table, while her eyes dart around the room.

He sends her a glare from over the rim of his glasses because now he’s lost his spot on page 856 of the Ancient text and at this point he might as well read through the whole page again because he didn’t really retain any of the information on the first three passes.

They’ve been working on translating some texts that SG-15 brought back from off-world three days ago that might have the location of a weapon usable against the Ori. He’s been rushing it, overworking and overtaxing both of them.

Every minute they don’t have a solution against the Ori, is a minute they get closer to a full-scale invasion.

He has dreams—no, not dreams, nightmares—where the Ori fire down on Earth and the mountain shakes beneath his feet, lighting goes out, and the plaster and wires and rebar used to construct the base pour out of the walls, the ceiling.

Outside cities burn, monuments fall.

Those are just the basis of his nightmares, the guilt of knowing if he tried harder, he could stop the invasion, that together he and Sam could create something to destroy the Ori, defeat the Doci, slow down the Priors, and stop Adria.

In response to his glare, she shrugs with an almost believable innocence and rolls her lips back into a tight grin. She’s not wearing the pigtails today, she didn’t yesterday either and he realizes it’s because they’ve been cooped up in his lab for almost twenty-four hours. They’ve gotten working together down to a science where when he leaves to relieve himself, he’ll bring back coffee and snacks, and when she leaves, she’ll bring back a bigger meal that she can charm the cafeteria workers into giving her.

He can’t be upset because she’s been giving this as much work as him. Sees proof of it in the red-lined lids of her eyes, or the way her tired tears loll down her face when she yawns and reaches her arms up to stretch her back until the familiar pop breaks the silence in the room.

Knows she’s just as tired as him because she’s stopped talking. First just her constant blathering, but then to him at all. A few hours ago, when she said his name in that falsetto pitched whine of irritation she gets, the one that grates on the inside of his ears and usually means he’s up to bat away her asinine ideas or her requests for credit cards, or a radio, or a blanket.

Then he realizes that she hasn’t said a single word to him since they last ate, which was breakfast, over a few hours ago. She doesn’t speak to him now either, just rolls her shoulders back, the left one clicking, and she does it again, the left one still clicking, then collects herself into a huddle against her text, written in a dialect of Goa’uld Qetesh was “overly” fluent in. White hands reappear from the mouth of the sleeves they crawled up into sometime after breakfast, and she wraps the BDU jacket around her body tighter, bringing her knees up and still somehow balancing on the stool.

She must be uncomfortable. He’s uncomfortable. He can’t feel his ass anymore and he’s stopped trying.

They’re not going to be good to anyone like this, if SG-1 goes out on a mission, they’re not going to be alert or aware, and people he cares about could get hurt.

She could get—

Dropping a bookmark into the centerfold of the text, he slams the cover and 856 pages he’s been reading for the last twenty-four hours closed and she flinches again, the stool wobbling underneath her perfect but jolted balance.

“Let’s go get dinner.”

She blinks at him once. Then again, squinting her eyes a bit through the dryness. “Would you like me to go grab something from the commissary while you tidy—”

“No. No.” Stands, shoving his stool back beneath the table, then slots away the text in a nearby bookcase they use for frequently read materials, his pulled from Asgardian, Goa’uld, and other Ancient texts, and hers a mixture of Cosmos and Mad Magazines Mitchell gave her that he gets the pleasure of explaining the jokes of.

With a small flourish of his hands, he suggests, “let’s go out for dinner.”

“Out for dinner?” She mulls the words over, like a piece of medium rare steak, staring at the table leg before shooting her eyes back to him.

He thought she’d be over the moon to get out, to get different food, and the narcissist in him wants to add, to be with him. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m not allowed off base.”

“I’ll sign you out.”

“Also, I have no form of Earth currency.”

“My treat.”

Her eyes narrow with suspicion as she examines him once again, her legs extending, boots tapping down on the dull floor. “Daniel, if you’d like to ask me on a date—”

“This is not a date.” Holds up his hands as his negotiation tactics fail and he takes a gulping step backwards lest she revert to her old handsy self.  “This is a thank you for working so hard.”

“Oh.” The expression is curt, but she nods at his words, then her eyes spark up. “Can it at least be at a nice restaurant?”

The hope he witnesses etched into her face beneath the lines of sleeplessness, the same worry they share tucked away in this minuscule workspace cause him to agree, and he can’t be upset. “Sure.”

He can’t be upset, because in the nightmare he had the last time he slept, the Ori came, and they took her.


	2. Valet Service

Somehow they all know to congregate in the cafeteria at the same time, the witching hour when they don’t want to admit they have no leads, don’t want to admit that they’ve given up on finding her, but again they all know they have no leads.

He stirs his coffee, his stomach a little upset, probably from not eating yet. Once he burst out of the restaurant, he didn’t go back in, just pulled his valet stub from his jacket pocket while filling in Sam on what happened.

She liked the valet.

The idea of somewhere being so swanky they parked his car for him. Her tired, ringed eyes sparked again, and he held his arm out to her as they walked inside—mainly because of the way most of the valet guys were looking at him.

Mainly because of the way they were looking at her.

He fretted over her not bringing a coat and debated with himself  if it was too forward to offer her his jacket. Decided against it because it might reinforce her idea of their dinner out being a date—because it wasn’t—he just wanted to thank her, and when she insinuated what he thought she would, he fought his fluster down into his empty stomach and thought she understood until she excused herself.

Should he have gone with her?

Not in a creepy way or anything, but in an escort-y way to wait outside the washroom because she hasn’t been off base that often. She’s so unique, an alien who looks exactly like them, that he just assumed she was safe from the normal perils of being an attractive woman—but he’s seen her defend herself off planet. Take down guys who loom over her, just flip around and scurry up them until her legs are around their necks and he has no idea how she defeats gravity to such a degree, but he didn’t worry.

He should have worried.

All the worry roils around in his stomach and Mitchell plops down across from him, equally exhausted from organizing the search relays for her. He has the same Styrofoam cup of coffee squeezed between his hands and the same bitter look on his face.

“I sent out a picture of her to all the local police stations in case she turns up.” Mitchell rests his head in his hands, then breaks one free to slide a package of antacids across the table to him.

Sam’s forehead rests against her forearms, her face directed at the table and she’s been that way for the last fifteen minutes, so he assumed she was taking a cat nap. But she adds—her voice muffled against the table, “I called all the woman shelters and faxed over a picture.”

“Who took that picture anyway?” Mitchell laughs, his lips bubbling into his coffee.

He only stares at his coffee, black, with little ripples in the middle of it from the recoil of Mitchell’s laughter shaking the table. Doesn’t look up because he was the one who had to fish through her personnel file, through the write ups received from Mitchell, from Landry—one from O’Neill—for just sneaking around the base, for stealing things from office supplies to leftovers to someone’s laptop.

Through all the medical records from Lam and cursed his literary prowess to read paragraphs before retaining the information, the things he shouldn’t know now. How when he slammed closed the manila folder, he couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat.

“I believe that is Vala Mal Doran’s security clearance photo.” Teal’c sounds the same, but he’s doing the same staring off into a distant point, half awake, half listening, full of blame.

“She photographs like shit.” Mitchell adds, sipping up more of his coffee.

Sam sits up, sharing the humor and Teal’c cracks a grin.

“She doesn’t like cameras.”

Doesn’t know why he’s bothering to explain the reason behind her crooked half grin and the worry in her slanted eyebrows. But he also knows it’s because of what he read in her file and when he swallows this time all he tastes is bile.

“Really?” Sam darts her eyes to his coffee and he nods. She swipes the cup and begins swirling around the liquid inside. “I thought Vala would love the idea of posing.”

“Getting caught on camera is usually how whoever was chasing her found her.”

He was there when Landry demanded if she wanted to wander around the base unsupervised, she get her photo taken for a security clearance. The photographer told her to smile, but she fidgeted on the stool, smoothed out her pants, turned to him with concern evident in her wide eyes.

Should have explained the process, why it was necessary, that she looked fine, great, beautiful. Reassure her that no one was going to post it for the Lucien Alliance or any other bounty hunter to find.

Instead he gripped, “Vala it’s just a stupid picture.”

When she explained herself, he told her she was being dramatic.

“We shouldn’t be worried.” Mitchell tries again to raise morel by restating things they’ve already said to themselves a dozen times and will say a dozen more times before morning. “She can take care of herself.”

What he doesn’t have the nerve to say—something they all also know—is that most missing people aren’t found after 48 hours.

And they must all be thinking of the same thing because none of them bother to agree with Mitchell, whose head falls back into his hand, his watery, tired eyes buried. “What the hell even compelled you to take her to a restaurant?”

It’s not so much blame as misunderstanding in confusion, in exhaustion, in worry because none of them knew how much she meant to them until she was gone.

She’s always just gone.

“Cam,” Sam admonishes softly, her hand reaching across the table to land on his sleeve in a calming comfort.

Mitchell nods into his hand, his face really red. “Sorry Jackson, I—”

“She wasn’t acting like herself. She was being quiet and careful, so careful, so I thought a change of scenery, getting out of this place, would make her happy.” It’s true. It’s all true and if his stomach wasn’t a boulder in his body, he would’ve lied. “I also thought she’d love the valet.”


	3. Two Plain Bagels

His arm hurts. Really hurts, but it’s just a bug bite compared to being a fencing partner with a white knight.

Despite the sting he gets every time he cranks the wheel to take a corner, that’s not what’s keeping him awake. He’s sort of preoccupied with the unbalanced gun in her hand. It’s boosting his adrenaline through his blood loss, even though, if he wanted to, he could grab that sucker right out of her hand.

He still has one good arm.

But that’s an action out of the question for right now because he needs to win her trust, and he never thought the tables would be this flipped. Somehow he’s got to get her to believe him and the team.

He’s the worst guy for the job.

But he’s the only one here.

Why couldn’t Jackson know how to drive a motorcycle?

“Can’t you drive any faster?” For a second, through the headache pounding to life in his ears, she sounds like old Vala—the one who took his bagel every day for two weeks until he called her on it and she answered, ‘can’t you just buy two?’

“Not unless you want me to roll the car.” He sounds like his grumpy ol’ self because in the last fifteen minutes he’s commandeered a motorcycle, saw her car flip like a coin toss, and get shot in the arm—he thinks. It’s a lot. Almost braked the damn bike in the middle of the freeway until she crawled out of the wreckage, and he thinks he looked small, not giddy and happy with that bright grin while she picks the pockets of whatever privates she passes. Just—her arms pulled closer to her body, and when she saw the gun, he actually saw her fear.

“Do I know how to drive one of these vehicles?”

“What?”

Slows at a light, third in line to make a left-hand turn and how the hell does she have a master plan on where she wants to be evacuated to if she doesn’t have her memories—but then again this is Vala, and her unprecedented ability to cover her own ass might just be engrained in her genetics.

“You said you know me, so am I capable of driving one of these?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Not really an appropriate time to tell the woman who thinks she’s just a waitress that she’s an alien and a criminal and wanted by the Lucien Alliance and a handful of bounty hunters. It’s why she came to them, but not why she came back to them. He back burners that conversation when his head is a little clearer and not so hard to hold up. “Because there’s no way in hell we’d let you get close to driving a car.”

“That’s rude.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Just because it may be the truth in the context of your opinion, doesn’t mean it wasn’t rude.”

He slides her a half grin because he can still see the real her, buried underneath all the makeup that she somehow managed to get in two weeks, under her outer worry, meshed with her whole survival of the fittest thing that smacked her in with his team. “You’re really not faking this, are you?”

“Why would I fake this?”

“I dunno, Princess, you fake a lot of things.”

“Is that innuendo?”

Honestly, he can sense her rebuttal before he even finished the sentence and this one’s on him, but he has started to enjoy their little debates lately, started to jog less and play more basketball, started trusting her with weapons other than a zat because he knows now that she’s not going to plant one in his head and steal his car.

Started bringing a second bagel.

“Not innuendo so much as a set up to see if you’d take the bait.”

“Is _that_ an innuendo?”

“Not everything is an innuendo.”

“Actually, you’ll find that most things are.”

“Depends on who you’re with, I guess.”

“Just drive.”

Just like that their debate is over and the gun is raised again. They sit in silence, with only her booming out commands of where to turn and what streets to take.

“For someone with amnesia, you sure know a lot.” He cuts the wheel taking the right she asked for, and now they’re entering the bad part of downtown, the part that always gets left out of the community restructuring program.

“I lost my memory, not my mind.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not an idiot. I still retain the main—”

“Then you know we stole a car, and that the police are looking for you.” As if to prove his point, they drift slowly by a parked police cruiser. He reaches to the side and gently lowers her gun.

“I also know that those people who took me are—”

His hands fall lax on the wheel, and for a second, he thinks it might be on purpose, but as he swerves in the lines, her gun perks up and she jabs a boney finger into his side. “Hey.”

“Sorry.” Then he realizes his vision’s getting a little blurry, and he tries to blink it away, but the car swerves again. “I am bleeding here.”

“Yes, and if the first thing I fully remember wasn’t running through a warehouse during an active gunfight, jumping through a glass door and watching said warehouse explode I might extend a little more—”

“Look, Vala.” Swats at her to quiet her, just like when they go off-world and it’s late at night and she bolts up, wrapped in her sleeping bag and terrified at something. “Wherever we’re going, it better be close because I’m not gonna be standing for much longer.”

There’s a beat, and the sound of the car tires over lumpy pavement.

“Could you walk?”

“Briefly.”

“Good.” She smacks at his arm, the gun lowered to fit into the front of her jeans. “Pull over here.”


	4. Twenty Questions

Tries to talk around the twinkie smashed into his mouth. Out of everything she had to choose a twinkie, which gave him the worst case of dry mouth he’s never had. “Alah.”

“Fine,” groans as she perches on the side of the bed, zipping up her hoodie and snuggling back into it. “If you’re so insistent on keeping me here under the guise of being my friend, perhaps you can answer some simple questions.”

“Fine and after I answer them, you can uncuff me and most importantly, give me back my pants.”

“My dear Colonel, I wasn’t going to leave you bedridden and stripped of rank.” The wink is all her, that flashy grin he gets from her when she sways her body after Teal’c helps her slam dunk the basketball. “But if you’d like to put that on the line—”

“Just ask your damn questions.”

“When’s my birthday?”

“I don’t know you never told us.” It’s a point-blank answer because she did never tell them, although it’s not like they asked.

“All right, if I am an alien like you said, where am I from originally?”

“I don’t know, you—never told us.” She really never did, but he’s sure someone must have asked her—probably Jackson, maybe Teal’c. Should really have a conference with them about her, how they could stand to trust her more both in field and off.

“I see.” She pauses and her demeanor changes, no longer as excited, she shifts slightly away, shrugging up her shoulders. She’s probably just cold. Hell, he’s a little cold. “Then perhaps you can tell me how we met?”

“You were escorted through the gate, and being the commanding officer at the time, I had to greet you.” That’s got to count for something. Well, it’s more like she dialled them up causing an off-world activation and they sent guards to make sure she wasn’t carrying any kind of weapon. Landry asked him why he let her in, after all, even if she was telling the truth, she just wanted to use Jackson to get a quick payday.

Something told him to trust her.

That she could help them.

Whatever that feeling was, he hopes she has it right now.

“So, I just traipsed through this gate and you were there waiting for me like a soldier’s wife after I’d returned from war?”

“What?” Crunches his face up in confusion. “Vala, what the hell have you been watching on TV the last two weeks?”

“I find it highly suspicious that a military would allow a complete stranger to just walk—”

“You didn’t walk, you sort of sashayed your way down the ramp. Is that better?”

“What did I look like then?”

“What?”

“What was I wearing?”

He knows. He knows the leather outfit, the one with the corset, and the necklace, and the pants that weren’t army fatigues or BDUs or slacks or—“I don’t remember.”

“Look, it’s nothing against you—”

He really is the worst negotiator on the team. He’s seen her smooth talk so many men, seen her play an entire planet, and he thought that maybe after a year, a bit of that charisma would rub off on him, but he still sucks.

“—no actually it is entirely you. I’m sorry Colonel Mitchell, but I need to look after myself.”

“It’s what you do best.”

She looks at the money she stole from his wallet longingly, but shoves the bills back in. With a fading interest she asks, “what do I do best?”

“Run.”

“If I’m always running then how would—”

“Because you had a choice, and you ran back to us.”

Her posture relaxes, her back and arms not so ridged and she smooths back a piece of hair from her face. “Why did I run away?”

“You saved us. You sort of manned up when no one else would, and unfortunately it came at sacrificing yourself.”

The look she gives him isn’t entirely unconvinced, just—sad. “Then it’s best if I’m off with myself again.”

“Vala—”

“You’ve stated more than once that I am at best an auxiliary member of your team—”

“That’s not true—”

“It’s time I run to somewhere else, because this lingering feeling of being in danger doesn’t seem to be waning anytime soon.”

“Vala—” he struggles again the cuffs.

Jackson told him once that she broke out of cuffs with a wrench of her hands at a certain angle, then showed him the bruises from where she helped him get free.

“Vala—don’t—”

God, if she leaves, if they don’t get her back, he’s going to be buying two morning bagels for at least three months out of habit—to be ready just in case she pops her way back.

“Dammit, Vala.”

“Take care of yourself, Colonel.” Calmly sets the remote and half bag of snacks next to him and pats his chest—his dog tags—in reassurance. 

She’s playing up her nonchalance, but he can see the fear behind her eyes, knows that the fact they found her in the first place was the lottery, and no one wins the lottery twice in a lifetime. Also knows that the team has been tracking his sub-q transmitter and if he can stall her for just a little more time—“Vala, this is a bad idea.”

“All of them seem equally bad.” Pats him one last time and leaves the bed. Leaves him still wrenching his arm trying to get free to go after her because he’s not too good with words, but he could probably fight with her until they both get tired.

She pauses for a moment at the door, he pauses his attempts to get free so he can hear her talk, and when she looks at him, she might have the saddest eyes he’s ever seen. “It really is a pity we couldn’t get on. I think I’d have a lot of fun learning to trust you.”


	5. The Cult

Despite her regaining a few of her memories, not memories per say, more like the emotional strings that attach themselves to certain people and certain actions, the trust takes more time to accumulate, perhaps because the medical, or whichever, unit of their military organization will not allow her to travel with the complete team.

When she reiterates that she and Colonel Mitchell did in fact travel together at her beckoning with no further injury to report, he slices his hands through the air to cut her sentence short.

The doctor, the one who’s name she doesn’t remember, but who pulled her into a tight and awkward hug in the middle of the warehouse, has been chatting with, who she assumes, are the higher ups for the last few minutes and his gesticulations are becoming more frantic. She has a lingering insinuation birthed partly by that embrace and nourished from the flickers of emotions when she glances at him, that a sordid affair isn’t too unjust a conclusion.

She’s planted outside the warehouse in the back of a car, not a cruiser or any sort of restrictive vehicle, as she waits for Colonel Mitchell and the doctor to finish having words with whatever other military head will not allow her safe passage to a place they keep referring to as the mountain.

If those flickering feelings weren’t so strong, she would think she ended up on the bad side of a cult.

In the interim the large man, the one of few words, comes to stand outside the ajar car door. His hands clasp behind his back and he bows slightly as he addresses her by her full name—or what she meant to believe is her full name.

“Are you still well?”

“Well enough as to be expected.”

He’s a giant really, muscles cascading over muscles, and in dreams she’s had, men like him are waiting on her head and toe, giving her all types of delicious foods, covering her in revealing gold dresses, and many of them tumble in her bed, which is where the dreams turn to nightmares.

A few moments later, the blonde woman approaches, addressing the man, explaining that they need to have a staggered start back to the mountain. Then ducks a bit into the open door, a wind picks up, flitting the short ends of her hair around. “I’ll see you when you’re ready to get your memories back.”

Wants to tell her she’s well and ready to be her regular, old self right now, but apparently that’s not an option.

With another bow, the large man and the woman walk away, disappearing into another vehicle.

“Hey.”

She startles, then glowers up at Colonel Mitchell, his knuckles rapping against the roof of the car.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m beginning to doubt my decision of trusting your team.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Should be apologetic but sounds almost playful as he shoves something warm and wrapped in crinkling paper against her shoulder. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Takes it from him, unwrapping it to find a bagel, still hot, slightly toasted smothered in peanut butter.

“I don’t know a lot about you. Where you’re from, when your birthday is, but I know you love that bagel every morning.”

The peanut butter melts against the paper, and the smell is making her salivate. It seems utterly familiar without her having a single remembrance of it.

He drops a bottle of water beside her. “I’m heading back with Sam and Teal’c. Although you did a great job of wrapping up the gunshot wound, medical wants me to get actual stitches.”

“I suppose I’ll see you once I’m back to my old self.”

“Probably, and I’m gonna want to know where the whole Florence Nightingale routine came from.”

“I have no idea what that reference means.”

“Normally you wouldn’t either.” Chuckles and groans from crouching beside the car. He offers her a low wave with his good arm. “See you later, Vala.”

As he leaves, he nods at the doctor, who nods back. She expects him to take a knee beside the vehicle as most of the other have done, but he rounds the car, instead dropping into the seat beside her. “How you holding up?”

“I’m very confused and a little angry.” She packages up the bagel, her stomach in too much turmoil to need food right now.

“Well—” he leans across her, hand snagging the door handle and yanking it closed. “That’s to be expected.”

“Am I an angry person?” Doesn’t believe herself to be so, just from how she was living at Sol’s for the last two weeks. Never felt vengeful or irate, just simply lost, like a piece of her was missing.

“No, not usually,” he sighs and the cold from outside begins to creep under her skin. She zips up her sweater and huddles against the door. “Usually you’re bubbly, mostly happy, really curious and always scheming.”

“Scheming?” She pillows her head against her shoulder. “That doesn’t seem good.”

“It’s not bad scheming, or evil scheming. Maybe once it was, but you’re—you’re obstinate, Vala.” Chuckles as he shakes himself free of his jacket, she feels the motions beside her, rather than witness it. Her eyes growing heavy. “God are you ever obstinate.”

“Dr—”

“It’s Jackson, but you call me Daniel.”

“Daniel?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we in a relationship?”

There’s a drastic silence, before he clears his throat under the ruffle of his jacket. “No.”

“Oh.” Then her senses must be askew, but she feels more comfortable in the back seat of this car, than she ever did at any diner or in any warehouse. “Then maybe my obstinance is a result of me just knowing what I like.”

“Yeah.” Swoops the jacket over her body, so it rests like a blanket, it smells like leather, and the outer fabric is smooth and cold, but the inside smells more familiar, like him. “Maybe.”

 

 

 


	6. Full Rack of Ribs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story. I'm on chapter 3 of the next story in the Addendum series. Again if you have any episodes you'd like to see scenes added on to, please let me know 
> 
> Also, fun fact: I had to look up rib sizes and orders. Psychological trauma covered without research, but meat cuts needs a hardcore googling.

It’s after midnight when he wakes up from the impromptu nap he took in his dorm. Blinked his eyes a few times at the familiar, but no less alarming gray ceiling, and shoved his glasses back on.

No rest for the weary

Although they had a great time out, some team bonding as Landry had called it, then the General promptly found a valid excuse on why he couldn’t make the party. The barbecue joint was kitschy as hell, loud country music, monumental booths made from the most uncomfortable wood he’s ever sat on—there might have even been straw glued to the wall.

But it was all worth it.

Her demeanor returned to bright smiles and bouncing around—at one point resting on her knees beside him, and he doesn’t know how she did it, not just wreck her knees on the hardwood—he heard them crack at one point—but just return to who she was around them after being lost for two weeks.

She wasn’t dressed up this time—some jeans and a t-shirt Sam gave back to her after the cleanup crews raided the back of the diner, clearing out any evidence of her. She and Teal’c spoke of earth experiences as a non-native born, and Mitchell threw back his first mug of beer.

Sam leaned across the table to him, fingers just shy of touching, to not draw the others’ attention, and mouthed, “are you okay?”

He nodded, his head resting in his hand, pretending not to hear Teal’c suggest they teach her how to drive a car because she’s already deadly enough.

“What’s wrong?”

The conversation beheaded by Vala’s concern, her arm stretching out from where she was trapped by the end of the table, fingers curling around his leather jacket, the one that still smelled a bit like her—he never noticed her particular smell, floral with a small hint of aromatic herbs, until she got sucked through the supergate and out of their lives.

He pulled a grimace at Sam, like they were tossing notes back and forth in class, and her toss got him caught.

In return she gave him a weak smile and shrug.

Turning back to Vala, her face stretched tight with concern he forces a grin. “I’m just tired.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t the truth.

Not at all.

The relief from getting her back alive and relatively unscathed—the cuts and the bruised wrist from the car accident were still prevalent, at least to him—but she doesn’t’ remember when they put her in the chair, when they had to—

But Mitchell remembered, giving him a stern expression as he waved down the waitress for another beer. “Jackson’s sorta been running on fumes since you disappeared.”

“Oh,” her intonation was higher, sweeter, her smile brighter. She ducked her head to hide it, and continued talking about the utilitarian aspect of a gas pedal or gear shift.

But when her food came, her full rack of ribs—because this was a kitschy barbecue place so of course they’re going to offer up half an animal as a single dinner—her voice disappeared and her skin grew pale. It was only a moment and before he could ask her what was wrong, she joined into the laughter of a joke he knows she didn’t hear and began to eat.

Barely ate more than him though, which is characteristically not like her. He ate three ribs, just kept thinking of her in that chair getting her memories back, and what they had to do to do it, and when he forced himself to forget, he thought of her medical files that popped back in his recollection.

There were only so many things he could eradicate from his mind at one time.

It’s close to one in the morning as he takes a leisurely stroll down the hall to his lab.

Offered to drive her back to the mountain with Teal’c, while Sam drove Cam, drunk and under the care of pain medication from a gun shot wound, home. The three of them said their goodbyes from the elevator as she burst forward onto her floor as soon as the doors opened.

Not unusual for Vala, but it wasn’t a skipping gait.

It wasn’t a happy gait.

“Do you think she remembers?” He asked Teal’c as the doors closed, he sent a checked eyebrow to his friend, who only remained staring ahead.

“There is no doubt in my mind that she does.”

“Then why isn’t she saying anything?”

“Perhaps that was not the worst thing she’s ever experienced.”

When he got back to his room, he threw up, then fell asleep.

The light under his lab door is on, and when he opens it, he finds her sitting at the table, hunching over the Goa’uld text, still perched on the stool as if the last two weeks hadn’t happened.

She jumps at his entrance, rocking the stool but never falling off, and tucks a piece of her hair back with her non-dominant hand. “Oh my—Daniel, you certainly know how to give a girl a scare.”

His name from her voice, the cadence and tone so familiar, so relaxing as he drifts towards her, behind her to his designated stool. “I could say the same for you.”

“I hope my disappearance didn’t throw a hammer into your plans to much, Darling.”

“It’s wrench,” he sighs as his ass hits the chair again and almost immediately falls numb. Leaning closer to her, not entirely in her space, but close enough to garner her attention he adds, “and you can drop the act.”

“What act?” She does the innocent eyes, the doe-eyed ones that he hates, that usually make him cave eighty percent of the time.

“You barely ate.”

“Neither did you.”

“I was preoccupied.”

“As was I.”

About to offer her an exchange, her bad feelings for his, and he doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up, the one to remind her, but if she already has the lingering memory of him and Mitchell holding her down in the chair as she fought against them, begging them to let her go, that she didn’t need her memories as Sam pasted the electrodes onto her temples.

How she started crying because she didn’t feel safe, how she had trusted them and they tricked her, how her wrist was bruised under his intense grasp and not from a car crash as it says in Lam’s medical report.

How he read about the obvious healed broken bones she had, how her psychological assessment stated there was definite signs of previous abuse of multiple kinds.  

“The food reminded me of the banquets Qetesh would hold upon a battle victory. Having all my memories back simultaneously, when you’ve caused as much harm as I have, isn’t such a blessed thing.”

Still feels her wrist under his fingers, feels her struggle and her doe eyes weep, and him telling her to settle down, just settle down as Sam, her face green, got a hesitant nod of approval from Mitchell, and flipped the switch.

Her scream roared, it was voracious and echoed through the room, through his head, and when she came out of it with her memories, she put those doe eyes on him and with a shaky voice asked, “Daniel?”

 Asked for him out of everyone.

“Well.” Reaches forward, a reversal of the monumental table at the restaurant, and his fingertips settle lightly on her wrist. “Sometimes memories are overrated.”

 

 

 


End file.
